


by grey stone

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [16]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, all emotional stuff aside this is an excuse to talk about castle architecture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25658791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Early autumn, 9:37 DragonFinally, Anders and Fenris get where they're going, to the castle that will become a sanctuary for mages in need. Behind the safety of stone walls, Anders discovers that he and Fenris have even more to work out than he thought.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	by grey stone

**Author's Note:**

> I SWEAR SOMEDAY I'LL WRITE A STORY THAT'S JUST HAPPY. 
> 
> Today is not that day. 
> 
> Dedicated to the people in my life I've thoughtlessly hurt in the past. Apologies can't fix it, but I can only promise to do better in the future.

The stone corridors echo with the sound of their footsteps as Anders walks side by side with Fenris through the hall. Thick cobwebs brush their faces. Dust and grime lies thickly on the floor, leaving smudges on Fenris’ feet and ankles. Crumbled mortar crunches under Anders’ boots. Through arrow slits in the walls, narrow shafts of golden light illuminate rusting sconces on the wall, weathered doors half-hanging from cracked leather hinges, and a few scattered objects—a rusted dagger here, an old bottle there—half buried in dirt.

“This,” Fenris says, breaking the silence, “still somehow manages to be better than your sewer.”

Anders laughs, startled. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. Justice has the distinct sense of rolling his eyes: in his mind, the clinic in Darktown had been ideal, propensity for flooding and odd smells notwithstanding. No one else agrees with him, not even Anders.

Fenris reaches out a hand and runs it along the stone, looking thoughtful. “At least the walls are sound. That is what counts.”

From outside, Anders hears a shout. He pauses and peers out of one of the arrow slits. Below, in the courtyard of the castle, the rest of the company is unloading the carts. It seems that someone dropped a crate, and is receiving a thorough scolding.

This is the destination they’ve traveled so far to reach: a castle in the north of Rivain, near the border with Antiva, long abandoned. Built in the style of the Free Marches and Antiva, it’s plainly not a Rivaini construction. General speculation has it that this was built by invaders long ago, but they don’t have the historical records to check.

The castle is, for the most part, intact. It’s a blocky thing, mostly of mottled gray stone, not as large as some Anders has seen, having only one wall as opposed to an inner and outer wall. A heavy gatehouse stands before the front wall of the castle proper. A gate, drawbridge, and portcullis, intact except for the chains that raise and lower the portcullis, stands within. From there, a short, walled corridor leads through a second smaller gate into the main body of the castle.

Thick walls, with small rooms and corridors built within, form a square around a wide central courtyard large enough for an entire garden to be grown. A defunct well (which Anders already hopes they can restore) sits in the center. Two large towers stand at either corner of the front wall, providing rooms and defensive positions. A great hall and kitchen occupy the other end of the castle, built separately from the wall. Adjoining these are a few other stone buildings: living quarters and armory, a small Chantry building, another of obscure function. The castle boasts several intact privies, which drain into the moat. Outside the castle, there are a few scattered buildings, equally dilapidated, apparently barns, houses, and possibly a smithy. Within, most of the wooden furniture—benches, trestle tables, stools, and so on—is still intact, though in disrepair; Yvonne, in a state of delight, informed Anders earlier that there’s an intact loom and _two_ spinning wheels. Most of the valuables are long gone, but the iron cooking implements remain, as do many tools.

For all its good features, Justice continues to remind Anders that there are plenty of things that need repair. One of the walls has a massive collapsed section. The roof of the great hall is sagging. One of the towers—the one Anders and Fenris are headed up into—lurches dangerously to one side. Although a wide, fast stream has been diverted into the moat, and allows water to flow out the other side, the sluice gates controlling its flow are either dilapidated or missing. The garden has been overgrown by pernicious weeds and the chimneys of the kitchen and other fireplaces are full of birds’ nests and fallen masonry. One of the mercenaries suspects that tunnels were dug under the collapsed section of wall, which will require filling, and discovery of any other tunnels around the castle. There _should_ be a cellar of some sort, but no one can seem to find it.

Yet Anders isn’t complaining. The security offered by these walls after so long on the run makes him feel lighter than he has in a long time. Even if Templars should track them down here, they’ll face a challenge in besieging a castle full of powerful mages. And, considering that everyone here had their phylacteries destroyed or destroyed them on their own, the Templars _shouldn’t_ be able to track them.

Fenris’ voice jars Anders back to the present. “The stairs are here,” he says from just ahead, pushing open a door. The leather hinges give an almighty creak in protest.

“We _have_ to replace those,” Anders says, following Fenris up the spiral stairs into the tower.

“Creaking hinges are low on my list of priorities,” Fenris says.

Although Anders’ boots make plenty of noise on the stairs, Fenris in bare feet makes no noise at all. The shafts of sunlight flash on his hair and turn it silver—a rather distracting sight. Justice performs the equivalent of an irritated sigh. Anders returns the feeling of sticking his tongue out at the spirit. He’s allowed to appreciate his lover’s looks.

As they ascend, the stairs increasingly lean to one side. Though it still feels solid, Anders still feels a bit dizzy at the off-kilter walls. They pass a few rooms, empty and nondescript, before emerging into a particularly pleasing room just below the top of the wall outside. This looks like it was once a lady’s room; the wooden frame of a bed—with its rope and mattress long since rotted away—sits against one wall, with a stool beneath, and a trestle table against one wall. A chest sits at the foot of the bed, and a proper window opens to look out over the moat and down to the empty village and fields beyond.

“Except for the floor going at an angle, this is rather nice,” Anders says.

“Very much,” Fenris says. He nudges the bed with a foot and it creaks a little in response. “This also desperately needs repair.”

“Doesn’t everything?” Anders asks. He looks up at the tilted ceiling, the floor listing to one side, the low vaults of the ceiling. “If no one else wants it, I say you and I should sleep here.”

With a smile, Fenris gestures widely. “Who _else_ would want a room on the verge of collapse, other than the two of us?”

Anders returns the smile. He brushes a hand over the lid of the chest, sweeping away a streak of dust. “This doesn’t look like it’s been opened.”

Fenris kneels before the chest, pulling at the lid. With a grunt of effort, he gets it unstuck and pushes it back. Within, there are quite a few objects, some of which even appear to be surviving fabric.

As Anders sets aside his staff and kneels beside Fenris, the smell of cedar rises up, a bittersweet reminder of the cedar chests they’d used in the Circle to preserve their limited supply of robes against the onslaught of ravenous Ferelden moths every spring. He shakes off the thoughts. Fenris is already reaching into the chest.

“Look,” he says, removing a small wooden statuette. Safe in the chest, the paint hasn’t worn off, and just by the colors Anders recognizes it as a depiction of Andraste. “These people must have been quite devout.”

“I haven’t seen icons like that…anywhere,” Anders says. He picks up a long gold ribbon, of silk made delicate by time, and lets it fall through his fingers. “Definitely a lady’s room, this.”

A spindle and knitting needles reveal that the lady in question was accomplished with fabric arts—the loom downstairs must have belonged to her. Fenris finds an incense holder in a small box, with ash still inside and the faintest scent of myrrh about it, and a few slender sticks whose myrrh covering is long since gone. Anders is developing a picture in his head, of a devout lady wearing gold and spinning thread while incense burns under her icon of Andraste. (Somehow, the lady keeps looking like Leandra Hawke.)

“This is interesting,” Anders says, lifting a hand fan out of the chest. The handle is yellowed ivory, carved with abstract leaves and curls, and fragile silk—once white and now yellow with age—stretches between the ribs as he unfurls it into an almost perfect circle.

Fenris makes a slight sound. Anders looks at him and sees his expression set into the hard lines that mean he’s been catapulted back into the past. “That,” Fenris says, slow and deliberate, “is a Tevinter fan. Antique, but—I’ve handled fans like that before.”

The word _handled_ does not sound pleasant.

Anders closed the fan and drops it back in the chest. “Enough of that,” he says, brisk, and stands up. He offers Fenris a hand. “We’d better move on, anyway.”

Fenris takes his hand and rises. Though Anders doesn’t intend to keep holding Fenris’ hand, Fenris doesn’t let go. “I suppose…it’s only natural that nobility here would have trade with Tevinter,” he says.

“Quite natural,” Anders says. He watches as Fenris’ eyes dart about the room, his shoulders hunching a little, as they haven’t in a long while.

After a moment, Fenris lets go of Anders’ hand and strides across the room to the window. In silence, Anders follows. Fenris stares out, gaze a little blank, as the warm breeze ruffles his hair. At last he sighs, leaning heavily on the sill. “I am ridiculous,” he mutters. “A _fan_.”

“You’re far from ridiculous,” Anders says.

“A _fan_ ,” Fenris repeats. “One look at a piece of ancient ivory and I act like Danar—like _someone_ will attack me at any moment.”

There are many things Anders could say, but Justice gives him a blindingly loud command to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes, Anders could swear that the spirit knows social graces and tact better than he does. Justice is right, of course. Anders keeps his mouth shut.

For a while, the faint whistling of the breeze is the only sound in the room. Finally, Fenris speaks again. “It is selfish of me to dwell on these things,” he says. He pushes himself upright and turns toward the door. “We have other business.”

Anders catches Fenris’ upper arm before he can move. “You aren’t selfish,” he protests.

“I am,” Fenris says. He looks up at Anders, challenging. “By comparison to the mages here, I should suffer no ailments of the spirit.”

“That’s absolutely not how it works,” Anders says. He doesn’t let go of Fenris. “You’re well within your rights to be unhappy about anything you wish.”

“After spending so much time—” Fenris stops abruptly. His mouth is a thin line.

“So much time _what_?” Anders asks.

“Learning about…everything,” Fenris says. He pushes a hand through his hair, rubs his calf with his foot. “The Circles. The Templars. Tranquility. All of it. How all of you, all mages in the south, have suffered. I did not know. I have made my choice to support you and take on your cause. It is…selfish of me to obsess over my own pain when there are so many others struggling.”

Oh.

Anders isn’t sure which part of him radiates more shame and guilt right now: himself or Justice.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Fenris flinches. “For what?”

“For letting you think you didn’t matter,” Anders says.

“By comparison to all of you, I don’t,” Fenris says. His tone is merciless.

Anders tightens his hold on Fenris’ shoulder a little. “You’ve been hurt as much as anyone. It’s no crime to still be wounded.”

“This is a far cry from things you’ve said before,” Fenris says. His mouth snaps shut again.

A flare of bright anger surges up, but Justice stifles it. A thought Anders recognizes as his flutters through his mind: _We have not treated him with the due respect he deserves. Admit our wrong._

“I was wrong,” Anders says. The words feel thick in his mouth—admitting this out loud feels like a betrayal of everything he stands for—but they’re _true_. “Horrible things happened to you in Tevinter. Just as bad as what happens in the Circles. Worse, even.”

“I am supporting the cause of mages,” Fenris bites out. There’s real anger in his voice now, resentment that makes Anders’ stomach lurch. “I have no right.”

“Maker, Fenris,” Anders says, and pauses.

Fenris just waits, an icy silence, a condemnation that Anders thoroughly deserves.

Anders isn’t quite sure what to say. “Don’t shut it out,” he says at last. “The anger, I mean. You deserve to be angry as much as any of us. You deserve _justice_ as much as any of us.”

“What, will you help me tear down Tevinter?” Fenris asks, a biting twist to his voice.

“Yes,” Anders says.

He feels Fenris jerk a little in surprise. “I thought—”

“I can’t abandon my cause yet,” Anders says. “The apostates here, mages all over the south, need help. Change has to come.”

“I understand that,” Fenris says. He shakes his head. “The stories I hear are…”

“No more terrible than the ones you’ve told me of Tevinter,” Anders says. He holds both of Fenris’ shoulders now, looking down into his eyes. “When we win the day, and we _will_ win, I’ll go with you. I swear. On everything.” Justice radiates agreement, without reservation.

Fenris’ gauntleted hands wrap around Anders’ wrists, as if steadying himself. “And in the meantime? Shall I still silence myself?”

Anders shakes his head. “ _No_ ,” he says. “Talk to me. Don’t shut me out. I love you, Fenris, I want to be worthy of your trust.”

Faintly, a smile crosses Fenris’ face. “It will take me a while, mage,” he says. “Our history has proven you…dismissive of _my_ history.”

“I won’t be, in future. I swear it, Fenris,” Anders says. The thoughts he knows as Justice’s take on a distinctly threatening posture: if Anders is dismissive, he’s sure that Justice will soundly remind him of his promise.

The wind rustles both their hair, dancing through the room in the quiet. Fenris keeps looking up at Anders, as if seeking evidence of lies. Anders just prays he won’t find any.

“I will hold you to that,” Fenris says after a while. He lets go of Anders’ wrists and reaches up, one hand curling around Anders’ nape to draw him down to press their foreheads together. “I _want_ to trust you, amatus. I do.”

Anders offers him a half-smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs. He lets go of Fenris’ shoulder to rest a hand on his cheek. “If you’d like…you could start by telling me about that fan.”

“Another day,” Fenris says, soft enough that he wouldn’t be audible if Anders weren’t so close. “I will tell you that, and more.”

“I’ll listen,” Anders promises again. “I will.”

Fenris doesn’t answer that, just closes his eyes. He doesn’t let go of Anders, or pull away. Anders feels the tension in his shoulders let go, a little. He hates that they have to do this, start over with each other what seems like every day. But every other new start has ended better than the one before.

He’ll just have to trust that this one will, too.


End file.
